Itch and Burn
by Jubella
Summary: Sometimes, not even the holidays can cheer you up.


There's this burning she doesn't recognize. It starts in her throat and spreads wide in her chest, like a long drink of lava. Except, it doesn't go to her stomach. It settles there, in her chest; as if it were a fireplace. She's afraid so much heat will melt her heart of ice. It sure feels like it's breaking.

There are new feelings everywere, these days. Things she didn't know she could feel in places she wasn't aware existed. The itch in her eyes when she wanted to look but knew she shouldn't. The jolts in her wrists that made her feel like punching something, _anything._ The weird sensation in her face when she would smile but not really feel it, making her unsure if she was putting on her mask right.

This days were peculiar. She was angry, of course. But there was something else. It's not the feeling of possessiveness she felt before, it's not something like jealousy. Because those things were easy to recognize and deal with for her. But this? Jealousy is angry and she most definetly can handle angry. But this feeling is sad, it's loss. She truly feels like something is missing. Then her chest isn't burning but fucking tingling, there's an itch in her pinkie, she just curls it in the air. Freaking God knows it's not the same. Not even close.

It's the fucking holidays. For someone who's bitter and bitchy like her, she's almost _nice_ in the holidays… somewhat. Maybe just less hateful. She likes Christmas and New Year and the stupid decorations and the tree. Hell, even the carols. She's not so angry on the holidays.

But it's different now. Now she's angry and sad and annoyed. She feels like setting someone on fire. She pretty much has a target, a pretty obvious one, she'd say.

He thinks he's so clever. Who the hell does he think set all the Christmas bullshit the years before, since she was ten? That's right. Fucking _her._ And now he thinks he's the perfect crippled boyfriend and takes Brittany to see bloody Santa.

That moment had been hard enough, thank you very much. But she blames it all on herself. She knows it's her fault. It always is, when she ends up alone. It's not like it's the same. She's not really alone, but it sure feels like it.

B would never leave her, except now it's like they're twelve again and they never played dare and kissed. She still has Brittany, but not _all _of her. And everybody knows Santana Lopez doesn't half-ass anything. Except now there seems to be an exception. It had always been, when it came to B. So she's not alone, but she feels that much, because it's lonely being with the dancer and not being able to reach to her lips. It feels, sometimes, like she's not with Brittany at all. Even if they're sitting together.

She can't believe even the freaking holidays can't cheer her up. It only brings memories now. Of trees and long legs sitting on the carpet opening presents, of kisses under mistletoe, laughter and wrapping paper, blonde hair under green and red led lights and sneaking kisses on Santana's kitchen when the ball drops and everybody cheers.

It's lonely not being able to reach to her lips. And she's never felt something quite like this. Like she's lost something that she can't get back, like she's seen a star that's only visible every hundred years and just knows she won't see it again; even if she tries hard and waits long enough. But she knows it's her fault. It always is.

And it hurts that Brittany is so oblivious. She can't be mad, really. It just hurts. She'd rather be angry. It's easier. But she's sad. And maybe she deserves not to get it easy for once. Because really? It's her fault. And Brittany is so very important, it only suits her to leave a heavy undying mark. Like those scars that never heal, and you just have to live with the pain. For B, she'll do it.

Even if she tells her she's ok, Brittany never stops asking. She really doesn't know the truth about what's affecting her so much, because Santana made it seem, all along, that feelings were not involved. It's the price she has to pay now. Watch Brittany kiss the dumbass right in front of her, under her nose. Because she doesn't see the harm in it. Can't tell the pain under her features, the itch and the burn.

She walks down the empty hallway scowling at the dirt in the floor. Detention was a boring bitch. Maybe today she can call Puck. Perhaps today, after listening to him whine about Quinn, maybe, just maybe, she'll tell about Brittany. And then sex, of course. Because there would never be any other purpose.

She hears the sound of sneakers running behind her, towards her in the hall. She straightens up her shoulders and scowls some more, before she hears the voice.

-Hey San!

Of course.

-San, wait up!

Santana stops moving, but doesn't turn around. She waits until Brittany reaches her and stands infront of her.

-Hey B.

-What are you doing here? –She asks cocking her head to the left.

-Detention. –Santana shrugs. Her heart burns. –You?

-Motorcross practice. –She smiles and puts her hands on her hips.

-Ah. –Santana nods.

She wants to get the hell away from her. Her head starts to hurt and all she can hear is _more, more, more. _It rings loudly in her ears and it feels as if someone is listening to the damn song right next to her.

-You okay?

-Yeah.

-No, tell me. –Brittany purses her lips, and her eyes narrow in Santana's.

Suddenly, Santana is afraid it's showing. The itch behind her scowl and the lava deep down. She crosses her arms across her chest.

-I'm fine, B.

-You're sad. –She pouts.

Damn lips from hell.

-No, I'm not.

-Yes, you are.

-Leave it alone, Brittany.

-Did Coach said you can't tan anymore again? –The disaproval in her face in painfully endearing. Santana stars to walk. –Where are you going?

-Away. –She snarls.

-From me? –Her voice is evenly surprised and hurt.

Santana's chest boils. She doesn't respond.

-Don't. –In mere seconds, Brittany is right next to her with a hold on her wrist. –San?

She stops.

-Did I do something?

Santana wants to laugh. Or cry. She wants to kick and scream and she wants to kiss the hell out of her best friend. Instead, she rolls her eyes.

-Don't worry, B. I'll be okay.

Brittany takes a hold of her other wrist, now they're facing eachother again.

-So you're not ok now.

Santana shakes her head. She purses her lips as she looks up and away.

-I don't like it. –She pouts again.

-Well, -She snaps and breaks her wrists free. –Sometimes we just have to deal with the things we don't like.

She tries to walk away but, of course, Brittany takes hold of her shoulders this time. When Santana stops moving, her arms wrap around Santana's neck and chest and instead of more heat or boiling, she just feels her heart jumping against her ribcage.

-Sometimes we can fix the things we don't like. –Brittany almost whispers as her cheek presses against Santana's. –Maybe if you tell me…?

-I miss you.

It comes out low and patethic, and all she wants to do is bury a hole in the spot she's standing and hide there for a hundred years. Try hard and wait long.

-But I'm here. –She can practically hear her frown. –I'm right here, silly.

-I know. –She sighs. –But it doesn't really feel like it.

Brittany presses her body flush against Santana's back, her warmth making the lava flow through all of her body. One hand sneaks to her waist and they both squeeze. She closes her eyes and her arms reach behind her to try and hold Brittany as much as she can.

She feels like crying.

-Better now? –Brittany asks so low, she's not really sure if she said it.

-_Un poquito._ –Santana whispers, just as low.

They're silent for a while, as she rests her full weight against Brittany's body, her head resting against her chest.

-I kinda miss you, too. –The blonde says after some time.

Santana's heart picks up again.

-I'm right here.

Brittany shakes her head.

-You know what I mean.

Before she has the chance to turn around, Brittany lets go and grabs her hand.

-Wha –

-Come. –The blonde tugs at her hand and makes her follow.

They walk down the hallway, Santana very much aware of the heat from the hand that's holding hers. It feels strange. It's warmer than everything. She hasn't touch something so warm in quite some time. She knows why.

They turn around the corner and Brittany stops, almost making her crash against her back. She turns around and bites her lip. Santana is confused.

-What are we doing? –She asks.

-Well…. –Brittany looks around, as if trying to find the words written on the walls. –I miss you.

-Okay.

-And you miss me.

Santana looks away.

-Do you? Miss me?

She can be a bitch, but she's not a fucking coward. She reminds herself of that and looks at her friend in the eye before nodding.

-We can fix that. –Brittany states, placing her hands on both of Santanas' shoulders.

With a little push, the Latina is with her back against the wall. Her eyes darkened. Brittany gives her a shy side smile and looks up. She follows her gaze and sees it –mistletoe.

Brittany's arms slide across her waist and pulls her tight, her head tilting down as Santana looks up, and their lips meet. They're soft and warm as they press together softly, and move slowly against eachother. Santana can't believe it's so delicate. They've never done this before. Her hands tangle in blonde locks as lips part and tongues meet. Everything is slow and soft, warm and wet. Santana thinks maybe it was like this when they were thirteen. Before High School. It's so familiar, yet so foreign, she wants to slap herself for being so stupid. She only notices her hands are on Brittany's face when she feels the blonde smile onto the kiss, and her pale hands are already on her face. Fingers grasp and thumbs stroke. It lasts long, but not long enough.

When they pull away, she opens her eyes right away. She needs to see, to make sure it was real. Brittany presses their forheads together and runs the tip of her nose along Santana's nose. The brunette closes her eyes, now that she made sure, and strokes her cheek against the blonde's. There is a small peck before Brittany pulls away and grabs her hand again.

-Where are we going?

-There's mistletoe all over my headboard. –Brittany smirks.

Santana is less hateful on the Holidays. And lonely? Not at all.


End file.
